


Metaphor

by servantofclio



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Archangel's squad, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-29 13:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7687021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m trying very hard not to see all this as a metaphor for my life,” Garrus mutters to himself, elbow-deep in the atmospheric circulation system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Metaphor

“I’m trying very hard not to see all this as a metaphor for my life,” Garrus mutters to himself, elbow-deep in the atmospheric circulation system. 

It’s perfect, though. He knows practically nothing about atmospheric circulation systems. He trained, back in the day, on ships’ systems, the best of the Hierarchy fleet: scrupulously clean and well-maintained, all parts in working order. He learned to tinker with his own rifle, like most turians, and he can overlock his own omni-tool, no problem. Vehicle maintenance, sure, he can handle that, especially with a manual at hand. Guns and electronics and combat systems, not life support, that’s his thing. 

But here he is on Omega, trying to make this thing blow air that’s at a livable temperature for everyone on the squad and doesn’t smell fetid. The circ system itself is built out of a bunch of miscellaneous parts that don’t quite fit together, and if there ever was a manual, it’s long gone. Garrus is out of place, trying to make something out of ill-assorted pieces. He volunteered for this, assuming that if he could handle one kind of mechanical system, he could figure this out, too. 

He takes a deep breath and almost gags at the odor. Half of the rest of the squad is still cleaning vermin out of the abandoned building they’ve decided to claim as their own, square and defensible. There might have been a nest of vorcha living here a while back. Spirits know what’s happened to them since. Plus, like everything else on Omega, the air smells like eezo and machinery and body odor all the time anyway. 

This particular odor, though – that’s coming from some kind of black, greasy sludge that’s clogging up the vent mechanism. Garrus pointedly refuses to think about the possibility that something crawled in there and died. Bad lubricating oil, probably, or the wrong kind. He’s pretty sure if he just cleans this out, everything will work out fine. 

From outside, he can hear the squad’s voices, even people laughing with each other. The salarian’s already been getting a bright, manic gleam in his eye as they talk about the solid but unobtrusive security they’re going to add. They’re good people, no matter where they’ve come from or what they’ve done. What matters is what they do now. 

Yeah. It’s not a bad metaphor, and it’s not all bad. Piece by piece, out of scraps, they’ll put something new together.


End file.
